The buzzer sounded.
Final score 4-0.
Jacob stayed seated a moment longer than the rest of the team, staring at the ice like it had personally betrayed him.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jacob snarled, quietly and to himself. “Fuck the Titans all to hell.”
* * *
The locker room was a tomb.
No music. No laughter. Just the dull clatter of equipment being stripped, the hiss of showers in the distance, and the low murmur of guys trying not to look at each other.
Jacob sat on the bench in front of his stall, elbows on his knees, towel draped over his shoulders. His ribs ached every time he breathed too deep, but that was nothing compared to the hollow feeling in his chest.
Coach Tremaine stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, face thunderously dark. His assistants flanked him like sentries. The air felt thick enough to choke on.
Tremaine didn’t waste time.
“You played like a team that already lost the series,” he started, voice low and dangerous. “No compete. No finish. No heart. We had chances… good ones… and we pissed them away. Stahl made some saves, sure, but we didn’t make him work hard enough after the first two. We let them dictate. We let them hit. We let them win puck battles. And when they scored, we fucking folded.”
Tremaine’s gaze swept the room, landing on every player in turn.
When it reached Tane, it stopped…
“Rivers,” Tremaine’s voice sharpened to a blade. “You’re the captain. You’re supposed to lead by example. Tonight you wereinvisible. Slow reads, soft passes, no damn physicality. You looked like a guy who’s already checked out. Fucking listen to me! If that shoulder’s bothering you that much, you should’ve told me before we boarded the plane. We can’t afford passengers. This ain’t a retirement home.”
Tane sat motionless on the bench across from Jacob. His face was blank but Jacob could see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hands flexed once against his thighs. Tane didn’t argue. He didn’t defend himself. He just took it.
Something hot and protective surged in Jacob’s chest.
He stood before he could think better of it.
“Coach,” Jacob said, voice cutting through the silence. “That’s not fair. Tane played his ass off. We all did. The Titans were better tonight. Full stop. If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I took the penalty. I gave them the empty-netter. I missed the chances we had. Yell at me. Not him.”
Tremaine turned slowly, eyes narrowing.
“Sit down, Gosling,” Tremaine growled.
Jacob didn’t move. “No, sir. Tane’s been fighting through pain all series. He scored the winner in Game Six. He’s the reason we’re even here. If you’re looking for someone to hang this on, hang it on me.”
The room went dead quiet. Even the showers seemed to hush.
Tremaine took one step forward, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
“I said sit.Down.”
Jacob held his gaze for another heartbeat, then—slowly—sank back onto the bench. His heart hammered against his ribs.
Tremaine exhaled through his nose, then turned back to the room.
“This isn’t about blame,” Tremaine said, though his tone made it clear it absolutely was. “It’s about accountability. Rivers… you’re the leader. When things go sideways, the buck stops with you. Tomorrow we watch film. We fix what’s broken. Because if we play like this again, we’re done. And right now we don’t look like a team that wants it.”
Tremaine let the words hang, heavy and final.
Then he nodded to his assistants and walked out. The door clicked shut behind them.
The locker room stayed silent for a long beat.
